Vacations Are Brutal
by Klarinette-18
Summary: The boys are away, so Charles takes some time for himself. He ends up losing himself in some memories, and things go much differently than he'd planned for. Inspired by a linked art piece. Slash - don't like, don't read. I OWN NOTHING.
1. Chapter 1

Title: "Vacations Are Brutal" - Chapter 1  
Author: Klarinette-18  
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Charles, unnamed Klokateer  
Word count: 398 (plus this bit, as well)  
Summary: The boys are away at a press conference/on vacation. Charles decides to take a night for himself.  
Warnings: I don't even think there's any swearing in this bit.  
Comments: Working on a couple Pickles/Charles idea, because there isn't nearly enough of that pairing floating around. Inspired by this wonderful piece of art.

"Be sure to tell me absolutely everything. I don't care how insignificant you think it is; if one of the boys so much as bites their tongue, I want to know about it."

"Of course, my Lord."

Charles sighed as he closed his suitcase and turned his attention to the Klokateer at his side, "Very well, then."

"Do you require anything else before your departure?"

"No," he pinched the bridge of his nose, "I've already forgotten why the Hell I wanted to do this in the first place."

He nodded to the Gear, who bowed in return, took the manager's suitcase and left the room. If the boys were off at some resort for a press conference/vacation for a couple days, he could handle at least one night off. Right? Mordland's finest were accompanying Dethklok at this event, and Charles had his personal entourage keeping constant contact with them; surely, everything would be fine.

…right?

Charles felt nearly sick at how pathetic he was. The boys were perfectly fine without him; he'd probably never even crossed any of their minds. Besides, they were at a resort in Corsica with access to everything they could possibly need over two days.

"They're fine, you fool," the Dethklok CFO announced to himself, "And so are you." With that said, he took a deep breath and listed his briefcase off the bed—he was determined to do this.

The elevator descended through the levels of Mordhaus and came to a stop a Charles' personal garage. Stepping out of the elevator, he saw the same Klokateer waiting patiently next to a black Roadster, Charles' suitcase already in the open trunk. He lifted his briefcase and set it between the suitcase and a hard, irregularly-shaped case. He closed the trunk.

"Do you require anything at all, Sire?"

"No, thank you," he nodded to the hooded man, "Just keep an ear out for the phone—even the most insignificant thing."

"Of course, Lord Offdensen." The Klokateer bowed and began walking towards the elevator.

Charles opened the door of the Jaguar and climbed inside. He looked for things to adjust; the seat height, the rearview mirror… anything! Anything to kill time. To his dismay, there was nothing that could be done; no one else had ever driven that car, besides him. He started the engine and made his exit from the garage, officially beginning his vacation.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: "Vacations Are Brutal" - Chapter 2  
Author: Klarinette-18  
Word count: 878 (plus this bit here)  
Summary: Charles arrives at the motel and would rather be pretty much anywhere else, already forgetting why the Hell he took a night off. Gives in to relaxation (oh gahd!) and lets his mind wander.  
Warnings: An f-bomb that has been censored (I hear the riff every time I even read a curse in a Metalocalypse fic), and it's getting fluffy in here.  
Comments: Read the first one, or this won't make much sense. The first one's super short, anyway, so go do that. More coming!

-storystartshere-

Charles arrived at the motel much sooner than he'd meant to. The traffic on the way over had been far too sparse, and he couldn't seem to catch a single red light. He even took the time to slow down and let a family of ducks cross in front of him, but they seemed the change their minds at the last second and opted to stay where they were.

_Bloody conspiracy,_ he thought to himself, pulling into a parking spot as close to the door as he could get. Opening the trunk, he took his briefcase and suitcase, leaving the odd-shaped case behind—he'd be back for that later, he figured.

The motel was modest and brightly lit. The reception area was papered in a paisley floral print, faded pastel green. There was some sort of rubber plant in the corner to his left. He could smell coffee, but nothing in the aroma suggested it was anything fresh.

"Hi there," a cheerful woman chirped from behind a high counter. A short woman; rotund, as well. Her strawberry blonde locks of hair feel delicately around her shoulders. A somewhat pretty, friendly face.

"Good afternoon. I, uh, have a reservation; C.F. Offdensen."

"Ah yes, we spoke yesterday. How are you this afternoon, Mr. Offdensen?"

"I'm fine, thank you," Charles was somewhat annoyed, wanting to avoid small talk, "The, uh, reservation?"

The woman nodded, the smile still on her face. She took her time typing something into the computer, and then walked over to a printer. It was a slow, bulky piece of machinery, and its loud drone did nothing for the manager's agitation. His face would do nothing to suggest disquiet, but he was very aware of the fact that he was keeping himself from tapping his foot or drumming his fingers impatiently.

"Okie dokie," the woman practically sang, "All set. This one's for you, and then we'll get you to sign another one once you've checked out, so we have a copy." She placed a card on top of the piece of paper and handed both to Charles.

"Thank you. Have a pleasant evening."

"Toodles!" _Did she really just say that? Dear lord._

The CFO was glad to have arrived at his room, but it occurred to him now, as he placed his suitcase and briefcase on the floor next to the bed, how early it was. He went back to his car to get the other case; might as well.

Charles looked around the room; a fairly large bathroom, a bar fridge, a desk (oh, perfect), a wall unit with a medium-sized television set, a loveseat in front of the window with a coffee table, and a king-sized bed. _Reminds me of University._ Resting his remaining luggage on the floor, he picked up his briefcase and went over to the desk. It wasn't nearly as big as his desk—not by far—but it would do. He sat down in the chair and excitedly opened the briefcase, removing his laptop and a folder marked "Pain Waivers". The Dethklok manager had started setting up an impromptu office until he opened his laptop and saw the post-it note he'd left for himself on the screen: "DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT." _Damn. Right—vacation._ _Well, f~ck, what now?_

He looked over at his luggage and stared blankly, remembering what he'd packed into the suitcase that morning. He stood from the chair as he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He walked over to the suitcase and lifted it on the bed, slowly running the zipper around the perimeter. Inside, he found the glass bottle and snifter. Closing the suitcase again, aforementioned items in hand, he grabbed the guitar case and went over to the loveseat and sat down. He stood and leaned it against the cushion, and poured himself a glass of brandy.

"This really is good brandy," he said, sipping at the brown liquor. He placed the snifter down on the table and looked at his guitar case. Resting his hand on the top of the case, he closed his eyes and let his mind play through the distant memory of the night he'd been given the guitar.

"_Here ya go, m'love. Dis is fer you."_

"_What do you mean? You can just give me this."_

"_What are ya talkin' aboht? Sure I can!" The redhead placed the guitar on the brunet's lap and lightly patted the body next to the pick guard, "She's yer's now."_

"_Well, but, I mean… what about you? Don't you need this?"_

"_I have another one I can use. No big deal, y'know? It's my gift to you."_

"_But why?"_

_The Snakes N' Barrels frontman kissed the forehead of the older man sitting next to him, "Do I need a reason to give ya a gift?"_

_The brunet man smiled as he gently gripped the neck of the guitar, "I guess not." He kissed the younger man back, "Thank you, Pickles."_

"_Now, play it fer me, Charlie."_

_Charles softly strummed the chords of a song that Pickles had been teaching him; one of the few ballads that Snakes N' Barrels had; a ballad that no one else knew had been meant for Charles._

"_This is our song," the redhead smiled a crooked grin._


	3. Chapter 3

Title: "Vacations Are Brutal" - Chapter 3  
Author: Klarinette-18  
Word count: 1,223 (holy Scheiße, they keep getting longer!)  
Summary: Drinking some brandy, playing guitar, drifting off into some memories, sudden alarming phone call.  
Warnings: There's way too much fluff in here. It's getting crowded.  
Comments: Read the other two. Srsly. I'll wait. One more after this, and that's when it gets slashy. Also, incidentally, "Charlie Bird" is the nickname I've affectionately given my budgie, Charlie (originally named after Charlie Runkle two years ago).

-storystartshere-

Charles slid has hand affectionately up the body of the guitar, running a finger up the neck and rolled it over the tuning pegs. He took the time to carefully tune each string, knowing by heart the note each one was supposed to make. He looked at his fingers, remembering the days when they had been hardened with calluses from playing night after night, making drunken attempts at serenading his lover with songs by Snakes N' Barrels—his favourites being ones reminiscent of "November Rain" by Guns N' Roses, and "Home Sweet Home" by Motley Crue.

He placed his fingers and strummed the first chord he'd played since the week before Dethklok formed. He could feel the strings pushing back hard on his skin, the chord sounding only mildly muffled. He took a minute to place the next chord and strummed, this time sounding brighter. He played more, placing each chord quicker than the last, remembering all of them. '_Our song', he said. My song._

Charles took another sip of brandy and removed his tie, only loosening it enough to pull it over his head, rather than untie it. He flung it over the couch back and let it hang next to him. He decided to remove his shoes and socks, as well. _Okay, _now _this reminds me of University. _He lifted his feet and rested them on the edge of the table, the guitar resting across his elevated legs. He rolled up his sleeves and began strumming the chords again, this time humming the melody he could remember Pickles singing to him.

_"I don't think those are the words."_

_ "A' course they're naht. Y' think Tony'd let me sing dat sappy crehp? Naht very Snakes N' Barrels-like, y'know?"_

_ "Definitely not. But… I like it anyway."_

_ "Ya better! Fresh lyrics, straight outta my head, all fer you, my Charlie Bird."_

_ The brunet handed the guitar to the redhead, "I think you should play for a while. Play me the song—" he smirked, "And sing like you love me."_

Charles winced at the sudden, sharp pain he felt in his pinky finger. How long had he been holding down that chord? He'd completely phased out, lost in another memory. Those were the days before Dethklok; the days before he'd had to lock away his emotions and ignore the pain that he felt, knowing that he could no longer keep his lover—the other boys would never accept that sort of thing from their manager. He wrapped his arms around the guitar and rested his chin on the side of the body.

_ "I don't like dis anymore n' you do, Charlie."_

_ Charles was almost sick with anger and despair, "Is there no way around this? Is there actually nothing we can do?"_

_ "I jest do see it workin' out, y'know?"_

_ He could feel the heat rising in his chest and neck, manifesting as tears that were now beginning to stream from his eyes, "I just… I can't…"_

_ The redhead laid his arms around the brunet's neck and shoulders, pulling him into a gentle embrace and resting his forehead on the other man's, "Ya can't what?"_

_ "I can't let you go."_

_ Pickles chuckled and kissed his lover on his nose, "Y' act like yer never gonna see me again."_

_ "Well, that's exactly what it feels like."_

_ "I'm naht goin' anywhere, Charlie," Dethklok's new drummer whispered, kissing the newly-appointed manager on his trembling lips, "I'm always gonna be right here, you know dat. We just can't be like we used ta be, y'know? We gotta keep dat in check an' keep it to ourselves, y'know?"_

_ Charles sighed heavily and wrapped his arms around Pickles' body, "…I love you."_

_ "I love ya, too. So, do ya want yer partin' gift, er no?"_

_ "Yes, please."_

_ Pickles slid his hands around to Charles' chest and began undoing the buttons on the crisp, white shirt._

Charles absently chewed at the guitar's body where his chin had been resting, until his mind was suddenly hurled back into reality when his phone rang. _Oh god_.

He answered the phone as fast as he was quickly capable of doing, "Talk to me—what happened?"

"Whoa—is dat really how ya greet the Gears? Ya frickin' robaht!"

_Speak of the Devil. _A short gasp could be heard as the air hitched in Charles' throat—_easy now. _The manager could hear the murmurs of a crowd of people in the background, as well as Nathan yelling at someone. Clearly, things were going well at the conference."Hello, Pickles."

"Heeeey! How ya holdin' up dere, chief?"

"I'm fine. I've, uh, decided to take a day and night for myself."

"What? Ya mean y' actually took time ahf from workin'?"

Charles suppressed a chuckle, "Yes, I've taken time off from working."

"Well, good fer you, Charlie."

"Is there something wrong?"

"Nope. Jest checkin' in ahn ya. Figured you'd be kinda bored without us dere, y'know?"

"Life doesn't tend to get, uh, boring when you're managing the, uh, seventh largest economy in the world, Pickles."

"Alright, alright," Charles could hear that the drummer had been drinking a fair bit, "Y' alright dere, chief? Whatcha been doin' wit' yer time ahf, ennyway?"

"I was just…" drinking. Playing guitar. Remembering the days when I was still allowed to show you how I feel. Choking on the past, "…relaxing."

"Oh yeah? Y' in yer ahffice?"

"No, actually. I've, uh, taken up in a motel for the night. I felt like getting away from the 'Haus and, uh… maybe, uh…"

"…maybeeee…?"

"Re-living a few memories," Charles screwed his eyes shut and shook his head—_don't do this to yourself_.

"Heh… someone's been into the sauce."

"I'll have you know I've had two sips of brandy."

The dreadlocked drummer chuckled, causing a light flutter in the manager's chest, "Alright, Charlie. I'll let ya get back to yer relaxin' er—"

"Wait—" Charles had even surprised himself with the volume of his sudden interjection. _Stand your ground, Charles_, "Wait." Pickles said nothing. "I, uh… do you… remember the night you gave me your guitar?"

Charles could hear a muffled sound on the other end, and what sounded like light static. "Pickles?"

"Gimme a sec, Charlie," Pickles said quietly.

The manager waited silently, the question he'd asked the drummer burning on his tongue, churning his stomach with anxiety.

After another minute, the muffled, static sound stopped, there was silence, and then, "A' course I remember."

Charles shoulders relaxed _(how long had I been tensed like that?)_ as a smile rolled across his face, "That was one of the memories I'd thought of."

"Heh… dat was a good night, if I recall correctly."

"It was. It was a very—_very _good night."

"D' ya still remember the song?"

Charles grinned broadly, "Of course I remember."

The sound could be heard of Pickles taking a drink of something, as well as a soft sigh, "I think I should come see ya, y'know?"

"What do you mean? You're on vacation. You, uh, should stay and talk to the press and, uh…" his voice trailed off.

"Ferget it. Where are ya?"

"The Comfort Motel on I-83, room 219," _So much for standing your ground._

"Sit tight, chief. I'll be dere as soon as I can."

There was the sound of a click, and the line fell silent. "Hurry…"


	4. Chapter 4

Word count: 1,454 (this probably qualifies as full fic length on its own, no?)  
Summary: Pickles arrives! Things happen. The story ends and everyone's happy.  
Warnings: Slash. Slashy, but still manages to be pretty fluffy. There's also a Pickles-style f-bomb, which is uncensored.  
Comments: I can't believe how long it took me to write this part. You think the fun, smexy bits would be easy to write, but I had a seriously hard time with this. I didn't have a whole tonne of inspiriation (I tend to work better when I have something to reference), except for a wonderful fic by a friend over at LJ.

-ficstartshere-

"Alright, t'enks," Pickles said to the receptionist; she'd given him a key card for his manager's room, without any hassle—of course she knew who he was. The room was dark, but he could see a reddish light shining through the window, softly outlining a figure on the loveseat. He kept his tread light as he walked over, finding the manager asleep, the old guitar still across his lap. _Heh. _He lifted the guitar off of Charles and set it down on the coffee table, being careful not to knock over the snifter that was still half-filled.

"Ooh, what'd he bring?" Pickles whispered, lifting the small glass and taking a sip, "Oh gahd… dat's good brandy."

"Mmph… hmm? Pickles?"

"Hey dere, sleepy head. How ya doin'?"

"How did you ever get away from the others?"

Pickles shrugged, "I jest told 'em I wanted to get back early 'n lay down some 'a my drum tracks."

_Brilliant. He's even sober. _"I don't, uh, seem to remember falling asleep. I was playing a little, and next thing I knew, I was opening my eyes to, uh… find you."

The redhead smiled at the brunet and extended his hand. Lifting Charles into an embrace, he moaned against his neck, "Are ya happy ta see me?"

"Happy isn't quite a sufficient adjective," the manager said softly, resting his head on the drummer's shoulder.

Pickles placed a hand on Charles' cheek and flashed his sideways-grin, "I brought ya somethin'."

"What did you bring me?"

Charles felt the world fall dark and melt away as he felt Pickles' lips crushed against his own, soft and loving as they always had been, but with an urgency and aggression that sent a wave of shivers and goosebumps down his body. He wouldn't hold himself back from anything else tonight; he threw his arms around Pickles' neck and pulled himself deeper into the embrace. He felt the drummer's hand slide up his back and gently grabbed at the hair on the back of his head; the other hand had made its way to the front of Charles' body, expertly undoing the buttons with a simple snap-flick of a thumb and finger. The sudden cold of the skilled hand on his abdomen made him jump slightly, Pickles stifling a muffled laugh through Charles' lips. He dropped his arms and let the shirt fall from his body, then feeling for the bottom of the drummer's shirt, pulling it over his head, breaking the kiss only for that second.

Pickles gently pushed his tongue past Charles' lips, swirling it once around the manager's mouth, tracing the inside of his lips. The manager seemed almost stunned as the drummer worked the belt open and pulled it from the loops of the grey dress pants; the two buttons presented no challenge. He slid his fingers just inside the waistline of both the pants and boxer briefs and guided them down the man's legs, dropping slowly to his knees. Rising back upward, he peppered kisses along the insides of the man's thighs, causing Charles to gasp and shiver. He ignored the already hardened member, which twitched at the mere feel of the drummer's breath, dragging his pointed tongue from the manager's navel to his collarbones.

Charles stood there, naked, feeling a shy vulnerability that he hadn't felt in many years. He felt the drummer's hands gently push on his chest, coaxing him down onto the loveseat.

"Here?"

"Why naht? We haven't let enny other hotel couches escape us."

Charles thought for a minute and laughed, "That's true," he said, lying back.

Pickles nudged a knee between the two legs in front of him and lowered himself onto the other man's body. Running a hand through Charles' hair, he kissed him hard on his mouth, the manager moaning softly in response. Charles had always loved the way the drummer's goatee felt against his skin. He relished the feeling of it dragging down his chest and stomach as Pickles kissed and nipped his way down the man's body. Returning to the place he'd purposely ignored early, he took Charles' member in his hand and massaged it gently, rolling his fingers in a way that made the manager dig his nails into the worn leather of the loveseat. He decided not to tease him anymore, and took the head into his mouth, massaging the shaft with his tongue as he slid his way down.

Charles exhaled hard, "OH—you, uh… you're still amazing at—oh my god!"

Pickles laughed deep in his throat, sending a vibration through Charles' member and causing his hips to buck.

"Jeez, I'm gonna lose ya if I keep that up," the drummer laughed, standing up to take off his own pants. He returned to his place between Charles' legs, his own prick in hand. He looked into the brown eyes there were gazing back into his emerald depths.

"It, uh… never did go away, did it?"

"A' course naht." Pickles said, briefly flashing his half-grin.

He hadn't even noticed that Pickles had taken out a bottle of lube. Pickles slicked his fingers, and began to spread the silky fluid over his throbbing member. Charles groaned in mild discomfort when he first felt the nearly forgotten sensation of an intruding finger.

"Relax, Charlie. I know it's been a while fer ya."

The brunet did his best to comply, taking in a slow, deep breath. The finger began to move slowly in and out of his entrance, the discomfort becoming replaced with the first hints of real pleasure. A second finger joined the first, gently scissoring in the tight opening. Charles was completely relaxed now, his body beginning to remember what this was. He felt soft facial hair brush against his neck as Pickles kissed just beneath his ear lobe. His back suddenly arched involuntarily as the sensation of being filled completely took over Charles' awareness.

"Oh god—OH!" he didn't even care about whether or not these walls were anything that could possibly be considered remotely soundproof.

"Oh, feck, Charlie!" The redhead threw his head back and moaned loudly as he thrust into Charles, for the first time in over ten years. He leaned down and kissed Charles on his mouth, barely stifling what might have been the beginnings of a scream from the manager. He slid his hands under Charles' shoulders and gripped them tightly, giving him the leverage to move their bodies in unison; rocking in a rhythm that neither of them had ever forgotten. Charles stroked himself hard, keeping in sync with the drummers' thrusts.

Charles wanted to say something to get Pickles to slow down, but he couldn't put words together, any sounds that managed to escape his mouth emerging as moans or cries of pleasure. He felt the heat rising from the lowest place in his abdomen, crawling up his chest and spilling out of the top of his head as he came between his stomach and Pickles', his legs wrapping around the drummer's back. Seeing Charles at the peak of his ecstasy sent Pickles over the edge; he bucked hard one last time, and Charles suddenly felt the wave of hot fluid inside himself.

Pickles panted loudly, soft moans heard with each breath. He lowered himself to touch his forehead to Charles', the manager lifting his chin to kiss the drummer's parted lips. Charles took a handful of the red dreadlocks and slid his hand down their length, watching them fall on the drummer's back. His returned his gaze to Pickles' eyes, which were now open, looking back at him. Charles took a slow deep breath and exhaled softly against Pickles' chin.

Pickles shook his head, smirking slightly, "Charlie…" he paused and chuckled once, "_My _Charlie."

"I always have been."

"Told ya I wasn't goin' ennywhere," the redhead said, lifting himself from Charles' body, resting next to him on the generously wide loveseat.

Charles felt his eyes become very heavy as he turned onto his side, pressing his back against Pickles' chest. The drummer rested his head on Charles' and snaked his arm around the manager's body.

"I… I'm glad you decided to come here tonight,"

Pickles kissed his lover's ear, "Anythin' fer you."

Charles lips slowly pulled into a lazy smile, his entire body feeling as though it were floating; his heartbeat slowing and softening; his mind falling into a quiet abyss where he had nothing to worry about. He let himself drift away to sleep as Pickles began to softly sing the words to a song he hadn't sung in many, many years…

_I'm headin' back up the interstate,_

_Goin' back down dat windin' road;_

_I gotta get back to where I'd come from,_

'_Cause my Charlie Bird's flyin' home._


End file.
